


Roses and Glances

by Miss_Black91



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask (1998)
Genre: F/M, Forbidden Love, Light Angst, Pain, Royalty, movie-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Black91/pseuds/Miss_Black91
Summary: He knows that every time that he has left a rose, and he has kissed it, she has taken the rose, and she has kissed it back, and she has taken it close to her heart, praying for it to be him.





	Roses and Glances

His hand is still feeling as injured as it has been feeling for some minutes now. He is not putting any effort in making it any better, anyway. Red rose thorns in his skin, from a flower that has just been cut. He took off his glove to hold her, he wanted to feel it close to him, because he was going to give the rose to her. To Anne. The most beautiful of the women in France, he was absolutely sure of that (well, Porthos always said that all women are beautiful, but that’s Porthos talking).

He has his glove on now, Artagnan knows that Anne is looking at him. He doesn't want her to see him bleeding. He's on his horse with the rose in his hand, close to his lips. As he kisses the rose, he looks at her. Anne is looking at him. Her eyes are shining, shouting in silence. He leaves the rose on a bench, where she can see it. It's time to say goodbye. Anne's eyes shout more and more, until Artagnan turns and leaves.

He doesn't want to leave. But he has to.

It wasn't the first time that he did it, but it would probably be the last one. It was his routine, leaving the rose, and now it would be all over. He knows that every time that he has left a rose, and he has kissed it, she has taken the rose, and she has kissed it back, and she has taken it close to her heart, praying for it to be him. And wouldn't it be wonderful if he could be close to her. Wouldn't it be perfect if he could be close to her.

So all he's got is the memories of her love to him and his pain. Nobody can take those away. Specially his pain, those thorns reminding him that he cannot hug her. That he cannot have her. He cannot kiss her or feel her body against his. That he has to take extreme precautions just to be able to talk to her for a second, alone. Pain has taught him to live like this, to live hiding, to live thinking about not completely losing her. Living through kissed roses, through quick hidden kisses, living in fear of loving too much and not being able to just ignore it.

Because that's something he can't do. He can't just ignore what he feels, he can't ignore the pain that comes from not having her. Because if he can’t live with her love, at least he’ll live with what life can offer him -loneliness. His pain is his master now, as it feeds in his need for holding her in his arms. Pain, pain as he sees that she, Anne, wants him as much as he wants her, but she also needs to hide it, to conceal it, to hide it. They both learn from it, they both feed from it and breathe through it. 

They have learnt that, at least, they can see each other in some stolen moments. They have learnt to take profit from those moments, because they are few. They have also learnt caution, because if they got caught, it would probably be death for both. They have learnt that, at least, they are alive and well. They have learnt to survive without the other, even if it hurts. They have learnt that they love each other as they can love nothing else in this world, and that they can never stop loving each other, even if they tried. They have learnt not to need each other. 

But there are some things that pain, as a master, cannot teach, such as stop loving. Anne hasn’t learnt that, nor has d’Artagnan. They don’t want to learnt that anyway. To learn it would be to forget. They don’t want to forget. There are so many joys in their memories that should never be forgotten. 

The very first time that he saw her and he thought that he was seeing an angel fallen from the sky itself, such was her beauty, such is her beauty still. Their first conversation, him being a nobody, not even a full musketeer yet, she being the Queen herself. Her eyes that day, looking at him, burning his skin. Their first kiss, in a hidden corner of the palace. Their foolish scapades, young as they were, they thought they could get away with absolutely anything. Anne making he feel the luckiest man alive. D’Artagnan making she feel the happiest of women. They both not feeling that they had to explain their love in from of anyone, not even God. 

If memories hurt, the pain that they cause would be well received. Those memories have him tied up in a way that he doesn’t even begin to understand. But he prefers it this way. Better this than to forget. Forget is never an answer. He can never forget the feeling of Anne pressing against him, looking for his warmth, for his arms. They have learnt to live through roses and glances, and that’s all they have, that’s all they must have. Even thinking about loving each other is forbidden, it makes them traitors. 

But, well, traitors they will be. As traitors they will die. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thank you for the kudos and the comments, they do help a lot to keep writing!


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